


Fre-animator the 13th: Jason Gets Re-animated and Exterminated for Good!

by CFM (Catatonic)



Category: Friday the 13th Series (Movies), Re-Animator
Genre: 80s characters, 80s horror, 80s movies, Death, Eye Trauma, F/M, Gen, Horror, Other, Re-animation, Violence, tw: eye trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:58:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1723865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catatonic/pseuds/CFM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Re-animator v. America's Greatest Slasher</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [❤Kandice❤](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=%E2%9D%A4Kandice%E2%9D%A4).



The telephone rang. Megan Halsey, pulling on a finely woven sweater, ran down the twelve-stair to try and pick it up.

She inhaled. “Halsey residence,” Meg spoke, twirling the already spiralled cord into deeper kinks.

“Hey, beautiful,” came Cain's familiar voice at the other end of the receiver. “Your place or mine?” he blurbed with a full mouth.

Megan laughed. “Say, Dan, why don't we go OUT someplace? How about the movies?”

Dan strained to look down, Chinese take-out in one hand, the phone in the other, switching it to his right shoulder and holding the phone in place to his ear.  Rufus arched his back in friendly curves, forcing himself against Daniel's recently lint-rolled pant legs. Whenever he was to go out with the dean's daughter, that is if he wasn't wearing blue-jeans, Mr. Cain always de-linted his pants prior.

“The movies sounds good.” He flicked a little piece of cabbage out of his teeth. Rufus swiped it up off the floor. “That new one's playing this weekend; the one about the psycho with a mask that goes after nubile adolescents.” said Cain, with a grin.

Megan rolled her eyes.

“I'll pick you up in," Cain paused to glance at the clock, “half an hour” he said. “I have to make a couple more calls, then I gotta _feed the beast!”_ He said that part in his best impression of a late night horror movie host.

***

There was a peculiar howl in the wind and a hoot upon the owl's throat that late August night, the crypts in Arkham sitting out their usual stillness. Across river, Wessex County (to be exact), the grounds were being disturbed by the tumultuous dishevelling of dirts, levers realized by that infamous stitcher of corpse: Dr. Herbert West. Blairstown was rather at peace this time of the season, so the M.D. didn't bother to trouble his fine-tuned mind with the trivialities of such things as getting caught by the local law enforcers. West had parked his newly invested auto mobile in the wake of the quickest escape route all the same. If things got really bad, fast, well, he _did_ have a shovel with him. Young West about his duty, only ever saw fit to bring what was absolutely essential to his devises; he always kept what he thought was an orderly work space. His unearthing tools, arranged in line on a sturdy industrial blanket to the right of him, his rope and tack to his left, and his shadowy over-coat, draped neatly on the back lip of the panelled station wagon. There was a sudden halt in his rhythmic digging. Herbert stood the head of the shovel into the mound he had arduously created, leaning one elbow on its well-worn handle. He had been there in that same spot for some hours now, chipping away at the earthen clay that lay between him and his monstrous model.  Before taking one last sweep of dirt off the top of the burial site, West stared blankly at the makeshift marker, the one that had been placed by either a foolishly merciful soul or a rather cheeky brat.

 _Here lies the_ _remains of the_ _body of the entity known as_ _**Jason Voorhees** _

_1948 - ????_

_Unrelenting, ma_ _ss-_ _murder_ _ing bastard_ _and beloved son_

Any other grave would have taken a third of the time to dig, the standard depth being “six feet under”, but with such a notorious perennial, the (presumably) late Jason Voorhees, none was too careful when putting him to rest. They had buried the casket at _fourteen_ feet below. Double would have been just too round a number for some, while thirteen was _his_ number--The mark of devils and the day that Jason himself had returned to Crystal Lake, to take sweet revenge on those libidinous, callow, counsellors.  West had made a tidy hoist earlier, and now tied one of the ropes around himself with precision, descending towards the stale personage. He would take the body, leaving the casket behind to avoid further suspicion of ghoul play. West wrapped the body in a white cloth, secured it to one of the ropes and quickly made his way back to the surface. With nary a sound, he had packed up his instruments into the car, put back the dirt with unanimous efficiency, and generally left the place looking as though no one had stepped foot there that evening. He gingerly lay the body in the back of the station wagon, clapping the door shut, a smirk following after.

***

The lights of the marquee were buzzing in time to the fire flies, the odour of buttered popcorn wafting outside through the vents.

Megan said: “Its really a first. You haven't mentioned West all evening.”

She looked into Dan's eyes (which he then tried to divert), taking his hands in her own. “There has to be a reason," she added, concerned.

“Well.” he said, as he idly poked a finger at the cut out of a poor man's Super Man in front of the ticket booth. “He and I, uh...We kind of got into it this afternoon. You know how he gets when you challenge him. He's always talking in riddles--I suppose I do get impatient and a little too quickly now and again--but sometimes I really do think the guy's insane!”

I know the feeling, Megan thought.

Dan scratched the back of his neck. “At the spur of the moment he said he was making a multi-hour drive to some place in _New Jersey_. He wouldn't tell me why, just told me to ask questions later. The most I got out of him was, uh, _Moravian,_ I think it was.”

Meg bit her lip. “That's a _cemetery,"_ she stressed _, "_ Some of Daddy's relatives are buried there.”

Daniel was taken aback. “Jesus!” he yelled. “He better not be doing what I think he's doing--I'm going to tell your father right now.”

Meg grabbed his arm. “You can't disturb Daddy when he's working late like this," Cain was pacing silently, "Why don't you call West or, or wait for him to show up,” Meg interjected. “Just forget about him for one instance and give your attention to _me_ , Dan!” Megan started to cry. “ Oh! Let's just see the _damn_ movie!”

***

West pulled into the driveway and took note that Cain's car was not there. He knew this would be the best moment to get his prize out of the trunk and set up down in the laboratory. If he was in the midst of work when Dan returned home, there would be far less inquiries and far more answers. West moved with his usual swiftness, everything removed from the station wagon, put away in its proper place inside the house within a third of the hour. It was nearing midnight. That particular howl in the wind persisted and the owls could presently be heard yonder the hill from Christchurch. Despite the minor spat with Cain early in the afternoon, the whole day had gone rather smoothly, according to West's weal. Most people were tripping over paint cans or walking under crooked ladders. Not West. Rufus had even crossed his path many times while scuffing about and yet all the lab equipment was working in sync.

“Now.” said West, as his eyes met the hollowed sockets in the face of his newly acquired carcass, the arms of the thing envined in many-coloured wires, an obstreperous device strapped to its surly head.  “They _say_ lightning is what brings you back--Let's see if that's the _only_ way," he cooed morbidly.

Herbert West let out a sigh from that aphotic place in his mind, as if to venture that he knew what he was doing, mad, wrong even, and that he couldn't care less, regardless the consequences. It was experimental--for science--for quelling that unnerving curiosity belong to him. When West got comfortable with an idea, there was no getting up from it. No deviation there from, no turning back. It would be seen through to the end, and if his own end came all the sooner, that would just be the way it was.  West stepped back from the table on which the monstrous Voorhees lie still. He grabbed the little glowing bottle of fluid, and a more hefty syringe than he typically administered with. With steady hand, the Re-Agent was soon coursing throughout the flaking flesh. No effect.

“Damn it!” said Herbert under his breath. “It should've worked!”

The device strapped to Jason's head was connected to a large bowl of water, in which sat an electrolytic charger, make appeared unknown and course, crude.  West went over to his work station, back turned from the slumbering beast, and started muttering all kinds of scientific babble mixed with illicitus dialects.  Sounded as though he were aiming to summon. This was just the way the doctor cursed, however.  He switched the power on and a bright ring formed around the helmet of the dead man like a hellish halo. West raised his right arm, a batch of newly magnetized, liquiform chemicals in hand, when he heard the re-enforced cables snap, with the loudest of bangs; before he could nerve a blink, Jason, had arisen from the platform and smashed the container of Re-Agent, shattering the plastic before it could even hit the floor. 'Man's only durable invention,' pshaw. 'Unbreakable'--not any more.  

"Overdose," thought West, with no quicker alternative. He spun from the grip of Jason, and in trying to defend himself, jabbed the syringe into Voorhees' heaving chest. It looked kind of comical, really, the injector sticking out, taught, needle embedded in the skin. Herbert West sailed through the air like a stiff piece of paper at the abrupt thrashing of Jason Voorhees.  West landed with a thud, and everything went dark.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

A few moments later, he opened his eyes; Jason was nowhere to be seen or heard.  West’s right lens was cracked, and there was an opening like that of a hair's breadth running down his face, bleeding, from above the Supraorbital, trickling below the chin. He gathered the strength to get himself up off the stone-cold floor of the laboratory, straightening his tie as he always felt inclined. The vibrant substance was all over. He pulled on his overcoat, following the effervescent footprints up the basement stairs, through the front door and out of the house. West stopped and thought a moment--The Re-Agent hadn’t served its intended effects, instead supercharging the infamous subject. Jason rarely killed those who were not directly tied to Crystal Lake. It then occurred to West that that fact may now have changed. Jason had pulverised the station wagon during his escape, and so Herbert was left with having to track him down on foot. West ran into the night as fast as his legs would carry him, heart pounding like that of one of his terror filled test animals. Where was Jason off to? Who would get in the monster’s way next? West recalled the extreme exertion he had felt against his body, before he was thrust in the air from Voorhees’ mighty fists. He shivered. The nights were getting colder and longer. Where was Cain? Was Megan still with him? Would Jason target the ones that are tied to his captor? West had to find his, friends, so to speak. He had to protect them. West didn’t care for Meg, as it was quite clear from the way the two of them interacted, even talked about one another, but he wasn’t going to be kicked out on the street for killing Cain’s girlfriend. West actually wasn’t sure what to do this time.

Herbert was out of breath (and about two miles behind) when Jason finally stopped running. Voorhees didn’t know where on earth he was--he didn’t think like that--he knew it wasn’t Crystal Lake or anywhere near. He was angry. He was out on the streets once more. There were people on the streets, good and bad. A scruffy old mutt sniffed Jason’s rotting hide, passing an alleyway, and began to growl, each ascension of the vocals growing thicker and more deliberate, more hating and fearing for continuing life. Voorhees turned back into the alley and clutched the canine’s wind pipe. His finger tips plunged into the body, peeling away the bark of the skin as the suffering creature let out one last feeble snarl, the innards spraying the side of the metal trash bin the mutt had made it’s home. The autumn moon was shaped full, a golden haze projecting down on the spot where Jason had claimed his first victim. The lunar light, combined with the radiating green from the feet prints, and the stiff remains of the dog with those open eyes full of surreal disquietude, would create a lasting effect for the unfortunate investigator or unprepared bum. Whomever would come upon the sight first.  Jason thundered down the lane, headed towards the sounds of the Arkham metropolis--Face contorted, devoid of any emotion, unobstructed without the goal tender’s guise of campfire fame to ease the rawness of his visage.

Herbert lost hope of coming upon Jason any time soon, so he decided to stop at one of the places he suspected Daniel was most likely to be.  Inside the old five-and-dime that Meg and Cain oft-times perused, he asked the salesperson if he had seen either of the young couple that evening. The man shook his head. West was about to leave, when he hesitatingly asked the salesperson, without being explicitly clear, if he had seen another certain individual. Who, or what, West described was Jason. The man shook his head again, this time thinking West was raving, what with the bruises and streaming cruor dividing his face between that of the fixed and of the splintering-star lineations of his broken right lens.  Next West went to the payphone to call Miskatonic. Still Nothing.

There was another telephone box across the street from the one in which West stood. He was hanging up the telephone when he heard the distinct, shrill, scream of a young female. He crossed over to that side of the walk to find the booth empty, the marks of luminescent ooze in uneven paces, trailing around it. The speaking apparatus hung away from the cradle, swinging with demonic placidity, only the slender fingers of the girl tightly gripping the handle shaped object. No hand. No body.  Doctor West knelt down to further examine the damage contained therein the red carrel and winced at his own subconscious apathy. He pocketed one of the lady’s blue-green eyeballs before picking up the pace after the raging Voorhees.

West was nipping at Jason’s heels. A reticent moment was vital for Herbert to attain composure. He ducked behind a parked car to flee Voorhees’ line of fire. Unknown to him, West was only about a block from the movie house where Dan and Megan were now sitting. West took out a linen and tried to wipe some of the blood off his enervated profile, head pounding with each intake of air, vision blearing one heightened stress signal to the next. An extremely small fragment of glass had made its way into West’s sclera.  All was quiet. Herbert couldn’t contain a whimper, as he plucked the shard from his eye. A mistake. Jason wheeled around at that very moment and violently upturned the vehicle from which West was seeking shelter. Yanking up West, Jason swept him from the pavement, holding the petite man by the collar. Herbert dangled there like a rag-toy. But he wasn’t entirely helpless. With that ever acute dexterity, West drew a revolver from his pocket, the barrel down Jason’s gullet within a blink. The shot rung out, flying immediately through the back of his skull, ultimately hitting the black top in the foreground. Jason didn’t flinch. The minimal force of the hand-held firearm was enough, freeing West from the fortress of Jason’s vice like squeeze. West, legs failing beneath him, collapsed involuntarily as he landed with a thud. His spectacles tumbled from his face. He was the better part of blind those moments he fuddled for the remnants of his eye wear. For the second time, by some weird twist of fate, West had managed to evade death.


End file.
